There’s an aspect of this earlier post today that bears clarification. Billy Beck says, in the post I referenced:
There is something terribly wrong with cops, now. I can
directly recall a time in my life when something like this would not
have happened because cops still retained at least vestiges of two things: 1) something of a capacity for reason, being able to sort out the dangers involved in this sort of thing, and 2) an element of courage requisite to facing those dangers with the responsibility that necessarily complimented their authority to wield deadly force.
So I created a The Hate File, and let me just tell you, just like I had to tell a neighbor, the other day, who happened onto my blog. That section is reserved for actions, not thoughts and beliefs. Anyone is perfectly free to spew forth whatever flaming nonsense they want without a fear in the world of ending up there. No, that is reserved for actions that do harm to harmless people, either intentionally or through error, but always under the assertion of authority.
I want to like and respect cops. It’s not like I can’t acknowledge a basic societal need for police work. There is a fundamental moral authority, and indeed, responsibility, that accrues to all rational adults–and I would single out men, owing to their general physical attributes. Valid police work is nothing more than a professionalization of that moral authority and responsibility, which I have no problem with–done rationally and honestly.
I frequent a cafe where I have breakfast regularly and which is frequented by uniformed cops on the weekdays. I hear them talk. For the most part, they’re regular guys, and when they talk shop, I hear and get where they’re coming from. I know that I’m never going to have a problem with most of them. I admire those younger, idealistic ones. Clean cut. Meticulously pressed uniforms. Military creases. Reminds me of my own days in uniform as a young Naval officer. If they understand and take seriously and rationally their professional role, not only should no one ever have fear of them, we ought to be able to cherish and respect them. I really want to be able to do that.
One of my dad’s younger brothers in a retired Reno cop and he’s one of my favorite people in the world. He never hurt a single harmless person in his life, and in fact, "took" a bullet as a young cop from someone not so harmless. His lucky stars were out that night. The bullet went through his windshield, ricocheted off his badge (no bullet proof vests in those days), bounced off the inside of his arm (creating a massive bruise), and lodged in his shirt pocket. No shit. Yea, I digress.
So, The Hate File is only half hate. The rest is sorrow and remorse for what ought to be a source of deep admiration.